Fled is that Music
by Doctor Who's Lost Companion
Summary: As always, friends always look out for one another, Sherlock and John are no different. Still is it enough? Warning: Triggers. Also the title is in reference to "Ode to the Nightingale" by John Keats. Half RP and half my own original writing. RPer: Sherlock DWL221B C: John, Sherlock, Molly


Sherlock shoved the bottle of sleeping pills in his pocket, stepped out of the loo, and walked past John to the door. He had been planning this for some time. A gunshot would be too messy, throwing himself in front of a car could be disturbing to others, and anything he did in the flat would upset John. All the scenarios came to one conclusion, deciding the best method would be to head off into the park when it grew dark, take the pills, and be done with it all. He would send Lestrade a text just before he died so that they would know where to find his body.

Near the door, Sherlock slid on his shoes before standing and reached for the knob.

"I'm going out for a bit," the detective announced.

"Ya sure. Any way you could possible pick up the milk? Please?" John begged slightly and then furrowed his brow as if serious, "I keep getting it, your turn now! And if this has to do with a case I would prefer to know where you are going. You know the loons out there, but you can handle them right?" he broke into a smile before returning to his paper, "Oh and when you come in at four in the morning, please do not start playing the violin or at least try to be quiet, some of us have work," John teased.

Sherlock swallowed hard, and managed a fairly convincing smile, "It's my flat too; I'll do as I wish. Are we out of milk again?" He sighed, and teased the door knob with his fingers, not quite as ready to open the door as he thought.

"You'll be alright, then?" he asked quietly, "Perhaps you should take a sleeping pill to ensure you get adequate rest."

"I don't really need them anymore. I mean, the nightmares, they, um, started going away on their own for the most part," John replied then bit his thumbnail in thought. Every once in a while, in his sleep, the carpet and wood floors would change to sandy soil or crumbling rock. The windows that were once whole would be shattered or cracked with bullet holes. On waking up the bleeding and dying man underneath him would turn into a pillow.  
"I was thinking of throwing them out since we really do not need them," he said thoughtfully at first then looked back up with a raised eyebrow, "though I wish you would take some, get some decent sleep."

It was ironic, that comment.

"Perhaps I will," Sherlock replied gently, shifting his coat slightly so that the pill bottle stuck out from his body less. Exhaling softly, he turned the door knob and pulled it toward him. His gaze fell to John, for a few moments longer than it really should have. Finally, he managed, "I do hope you will be well", before he faced the door and stepped out, heading down the stairs.

"Right, later Sherlock," John waved behind him without even seeing him leave through the door and continued with his paper. It was nice and quiet for once, spot of tea and some biscuits Mrs. Hudson had made for them. Few cases came and went this past month, something for the followers to read on his blog though none seemed to really satisfy Sherlock. Then again if they did satisfy Sherlock, it might involve some horrific, gruesome murder or an over complex puzzle for him to solve. One man's suffering is another one's happiness? John thought then shook it out of his mind since it was not that. The fire was warm and the tea comforting, not realizing the article he had been reading was blurry. Then darker.

The detective stared out the window of the cab; although the driver had the heat turned on, Sherlock felt chilly. His hand was in his pocket, his thumb tracing over the ridged cap of the bottle of sleeping pills. He had finalized updating his will two days ago; John would be very well off after Sherlock's death. There was the hope that John would forgive him, in some small way, since he was making a clear effort to show that he at least cared enough to set his things in order. His bank account would be combined with John's, and it would be more than enough for the doctor to purchase a home, perhaps fill it with children.

The cab pulled up to a coffee shop, where Sherlock had asked to be dropped off so as not to arouse suspicion, near Hyde Park, and Sherlock stepped out, paid the driver, and walked into the shop, ordering a cuppa. He'd have to walk into the park a ways to find a bench where others weren't nearby, and he saw no sense in letting his hands freeze.

"Watson!"  
"Colonel! What is it?" shouting over the barrage of attack, everyone thrown forward a bit when a grenade went off somewhere.

"Man's been shot, he's our only best chance of communication with another nearby platoon, hurry up and help him," the blond shouted back and leaned over the wall releasing his weapon in rapid fire.

"Yes sir!" Watson scrambled over near the wall where his superior pointed, "Hey! It's Watson, your medic I am here to-" after crawling around the other side to reach the man in proper cover, his heart dropped, and the silence was muted everything.

"John," a hand reached out to him and blood sputtered out of his mouth, drizzling from the corner. Sitting up in a uniform he should not have been wearing, the figure blinked, helmet crooked, and hair disheveled.  
"Please no..." John uttered and seemingly bits of reality were exploding around them in the pervading silence. Sections of wall breaking up, the sun growing blackened dark, though these elements had no affect on them nor did they notice.

"Sherlock!" John lunged at him and blinking into the carpet, panting in a cold sweat. Checking around, Sherlock's coat was still absent from the hook on the wall, so he untangled himself from the blanket and stretched up.  
"Maybe I do still need them..." hearing his own voice, shaky and childishly frightened.

Clutching his warm drink, Sherlock set out down the pathway, glancing around him. At this hour of the night, only a few drunken bums were hanging around. The lights from the city slowly faded behind him; only the occasional street lamp illuminated his way now. After a few moments, he came across a city bench. Looking around to make sure no one saw him, he brushed it off and eased onto it with a sigh. As his hands warmed, Sherlock looked up at the sky, or what he could see of it through the trees, anyway.

The stars truly were beautiful, and with the brisk pre-dawn air, the nature surrounding him, and the tea in his hands, the detective could even call this peaceful, enjoyable, were it not for the knowledge of his plans. He took a sip of his tea, and then set it on the park bench next to him, before withdrawing the pills from his pocket. Popping the lid off, and one by one, he took every pill left in the bottle-twenty three, in total. Slowly over the past few weeks Sherlock had been feeling emptier than the bottle he stared into.

By his calculations Sherlock knew it would be at least ten minutes for the pills to show any effects. It was nerve-wracking; he was almost, dare he say it, frightened? He withdrew his phone from his pocket, and glanced at the time. 02:47. John would be long asleep by now, but Sherlock couldn't help it as he composed a text. Damn sentiment.

_ Forgive me. -SH_

Odd. John could have sworn he left the pills in the mirror cabinet. Stepping out, he checked upstairs in his bedroom, searching his bedside table and was confused. Maybe Sherlock was using them in one of chemical experiments, John concluded and trod back downstairs, carefully picking up a couple of glass flasks on the table. Nervous to know what was in them, he made sure to handle them as if made of egg shells and found nothing. Then from his pocket, his phone pinged… What? What was this about?

_ You ok? You drunk? I can get a cab and pick you_

_ up. - JW_

Sherlock was surprised at the nearly immediate reply. So John was already awake. Why? It had to have been a nightmare; no one would have called him at this hour, not even Mycroft, who would be long asleep by now anyway.

_ No, I am not intoxicated. You'll find out in the morning. Please be good to yourself when you find out. -SH_

He exhaled shakily and clutched his phone, palm starting to sweat. Sherlock's other hand reached for his tea, and he took a long sip, before setting it down again. The now-empty pill bottle tumbled off the bench and rolled underneath.

The message did not satisfy him. John paced for a moment and tried to figure out the message. Had he taken on a case privately, not wanting him involved? When did Sherlock start working alone again? Then glanced at the text and the words began to stick out- 'good to yourself when you find out...' "Fuck no!" John ran out of the kitchen and went for his shoes, tripping over the edge of the carpet to fall hard. Struggling to get up, he cursed himself and staggered to the door with his coat.

"Lestrade, something is happening to Sherlock!" John shouted into the phone and waved down a cab, "Please send someone out there, trace his phonen for fuck's sake!"

_Whatever you are doing, stop it now! If they are forcing you, try to delay them, I am on my way! Can you tell me where you are? _

_ -JW_

_ Get home, John, and stay there. This isn't something you can fix. Leave it. _

_ -SH_

Sherlock sighed and blinked a few times. It was starting to become a challenge to stay awake. He tightened his grip on his tea cup, before he decided to set it on the ground, and slowly lay down on the bench. It wasn't quite wide enough for him to lie comfortably flat, but he could look at the stars without craning his neck.

Lestrade yawned into the phone, and threw himself out of bed, scrambling to put on some trousers, "I'll call someone to get it done right away," he said groggily, "Better yet, I'll call his brother." Greg hung up and sent a quick text to Mycroft. After receiving an answer, he called John back, "He's in Hyde Park. What's going on?"

"I think someone might be forcing him another suicide again and no one else is with him. Molly's still in her flat and clearly you lot know nothing about this. Hyde Park please, emergency," John snapped at the driver who grumbled a bit until he shoved an extra couple of pounds through the window.

_Too late, on my way, no I will not leave it. _

_ –JW_

The car screeched to a halt and John sprinted out, calling his name and searching the park pathways. Now the nightmare was real, the familiarity of this running was too remember able. He even half expected to be knocked down and dizzied, yet thanks to his luck no one was around to interfere this time. Running around the way he did, no attention was given to the pain in his lungs or the soreness of his unstretched legs

"Sherlock! Where are you!"

John's frazzled, unused voice perked Sherlock up a bit, but when he tried to move, his limbs felt heavy. It was starting, then. Sherlock bit his lower lip, his eyelids feeling like heavy weights. He slowly typed out a message on his phone for Lestrade.

_Suicide. Reasons are unimportant. Hyde Park, bench around one hundred paces in from the west side. _

_ -SH_

Sherlock hit the 'send' button, and then let his head fall back onto the bench, and his eyes close, phone resting against his chest. If he remained quiet, perhaps John would pass by him. The area he was in wasn't terribly well lit, so John might easily miss him. This wasn't the way he wanted it to happen; not when his traumatized best friend had to watch him slip away.

Lestrade hastily forwarded Sherlock's text to John's phone.

"Sherlock..." John muttered and checked his bearings, coming in from the south and was slightly more than the middle. In the war, sometimes the soldiers had to sprint far distances just to find better cover to reposition themselves. John ran farther and faster than any of the younger soldiers ever had, estimating the distance of 100 paces more distance because the other man had taller legs, he checked the benches, coming to one more underneath a tree. It could have been easily overlooked, the inky dark coat blending into the night's shadow.

"Why..." trembling legs when he found him, all he could do was take one step at a time to him, "Why are you lying on that bench Sherlock? Please..." John reached out to him with his trembling left hand. Sherlock forced his eyes open, and shivered, turning his head to look over at John. He was too out of it to weep, but that's what he would likely do at the moment.

"You're...not...supposed to be here," the detective slurred, and tried to reach out his hand toward John's, but his limbs felt like they were made of iron. His eyes closed again, "I'm...sorry." He barely whispered, hand resting loosely on his chest, "I'm sorry." He repeated, before finally succumbing to the effects of the pills slowly he could feel himself drifting in and out of consciousness, like one might normally do when falling asleep.

_I've sent for an ambulance. Should be there any time. -GL_

"No...no. No. NO!" his legs forced him the rest of the way and John straddling over Sherlock's legs, pulled him up by his jacket, "Stop it! Stop it now you stupid idiot! What are you doing!" forcefully he shook him back and forth, watching Sherlock's head bobble and his eyes flicker open to the movement, though each second pasted meant the further he was away.

"Just wait! You lied to me! You said I was your only friend god damn it! You going to make me go through this again! Bastard!" John slapped him hard across the cheek. Now Sherlock was slightly more awake as he could feel the sting on his cheek, and he exhaled shakily, whimpering.

"This...wasn't meant to happen," He cried, tears pricking at his eyes, "Leave me!" He snarled, weakly swatting at John, trying to push him away. His mind was clouded now, and he couldn't think straight. Then the eyes closed again, and this time he couldn't force them to open again. "Leave, leave!" He called aimlessly, flopping back in John's clutches, his limbs going numb.

"Never. Not until you tell me why. The first time is understandable, protection, yes. What is it this time? Is it Moran, someone else? Terrorist... What did I do!" John wailed, "I thought you were happy, I thought we were happy! Do you want to know the real reason those nightmares went away do you? Do you!?" John screamed until a small, pathetic nod came from the detective, "It was because I knew I was with you, living in that flat and I was not alone anymore. If you never noticed, the nightmares returned when you were not home, off on a case or over-seas. So now you better explain or else I will not be able to forgive you." Crying. Crying and angry his eyes stung, wheeling his hand back and hitting Sherlock's other cheek to delay him.

Sherlock was jostled awake again, but he couldn't open his eyes. His tongue felt thick and his lips numb, "You...you're...going...to leave." He managed through practically useless lips, "You'll leave, and I... I will... be alone." He tried to swallowed and wet his mouth, but that seemed like an impossible task at this point. His head lulled back again, his mouth hanging open.

The stretcher was pulled out of the ambulance, the slightly squeaking wheels moving along the pavement down the pathway, "Paramedics!" They called, shining their flashlights throughout the park, "Is there a medical emergency here?"

"L-leave?" John's grip on the jacket slackened and completely let go as if it burned him, "I never said I was leaving. Why would I ever..."

"Paramedics!"  
"But Sherlock-"

"Paramedics!"

"Here... here over here!" his voice almost lost when he shouted at them and waved them over, flash lights settling on him. Not knowing what else to say, he simply held onto Sherlock's left hand and stood there vacantly. The men and women had run over to them, one reaching to him had to move him aside and stripped Sherlock's scarf, tossed to the ground in hurry. Checking his vitals, they carefully lifted the body up and set it down on the gurney

"Please sir, have to let go," someone said to him and John lost contact, only watching them ahead of him as he slowly followed after. His hands clutched to the scarf tighter, as if would preserve what little heat was left behind. Riding away, John stood still at the corner for another minute then decided to hail a cab, asking for the hospital. The words of his friend continuously echoed.

The bumps in the road jostled Sherlock just enough so that he wasn't completely unconscious, but it was as if he had no control over his body or mind; like it wasn't even his any more. A tightness around his arm- blood pressure cuff? A tiny pin prick-IV line? Sherlock could not handle this state of helplessness. The stretcher was then wheeled out of the ambulance and into the emergency ward.  
John had hit and yelled at him. If by some miracle Sherlock survived, John wasn't going to want to have anything to do with him. Though, that was part of the reason he downed the pills in the first place. He could always try again, providing he wasn't paralyzed or mentally damaged. Sherlock started to become aware of the world around him sometime- had to be ages- later. He couldn't open his eyes just yet, but a faint light penetrated his closed eyelids.

He was in a scratchy gown, in an uncomfortable bed- hospital, not heaven or hell, if either place even existed. Sherlock tried to move, but the signals didn't seem to reach from his brain to his limbs. He groaned softly as he realized his stomach was sore-from pumping out the pills, most likely.

The city was quiet. So eerily quiet with all of London's citizens sleeping, maybe dreaming as well. None were experiencing their world shattering around them. John stared out the window and theorized medically where Sherlock would have been at this point. From what he noticed when he found the bottle on the ground, all the pills had been taken, and if memory served the bottle was near full. Fits of in and out of consciousness. Slow heart. Slow death. But Sherlock Holmes could never have such a slow death, that would bore him, John chuckled to himself. Of course Sherlock would have the last say in any argument, if there was something he wanted, he was determined. John asked the driver to turn back to the park when he remember he forgot something.

"Sherlock? Oh god, he's waking up!" Molly smiled and poked her head outside of the hall to tell Lestrade, then pulled back in, "Can you hear me? Please tell me you can." Lightly holding Sherlock's hand, her tears began to slide out uncontrollably and shaking, collapsed in the chair next to his bed, still clutching him.

"I'll wait here. Wait until I see him again," John concluded, resting on the bench.

Sherlock responded first by weakly squeezing her hand and slowly opening his eyes to look over at her with a slightly confused look. "John?" He asked, voice cracked and his throat parched.

Lestrade burst in with a tentative smile, "There's the ol' boy, still with us! How are you feelin'? Need me to call in a nurse for you?" Lestrade stood next to Molly, and put his arm around her shoulder.

"You- you..." Molly's voice squeaked, "I... Sherlock I- I know you said that I Counted it was the greatest thing everyone ever said to me I swear. Why do you not believe that for yourself? You count to me, you count for Greg, Mycroft. And John most of all. For so long I was jealous." Molly let his hand go and her head fell, biting her lip. The guilt was starting to well up in her and the scolding within her attacked, picking her apart. The pit of her stomach seemingly went lower with another admittance of a sob.  
"I could never be in your heart Sherlock, I realize that now, but you Count. You Count to John. Does he Count for you?" finally picking her eyes up and daring to look at him.

Sherlock nodded weakly, "Everything. He means...everything to me. Where-where is he?" He tried to cough, but even doing that hurt. With that he squeezed his eyes shut and groaned, rolling over slightly.

"I've been texting him, no reply. He's probably off worrying about you, but he'll be alright. I told him you were okay," Lestrade piped up, pulling up a chair and sitting down.

"Want...to see him." Sherlock whispered, eyes squeezed shut.

"I'll just wait here," John concluded and looked back up at the tree smiling when he sat on the bench, "Everything is right."

The nurse came in and told him he could leave in another half hour, really wanting to keep him overnight for observation, though Lestrade's intervening allowed them to deal with the paperwork later. Molly received a text from John, him guessing she was there, and read it back to Sherlock.  
"He said he is waiting for you there, this good Sherlock, and you already have a bit of color back," Molly smiled and kissed his cheek. Finally when it came time, Lestrade ordered them a cab, all squeezing in and Molly leaned over to Sherlock.

"What will you say to him when you see him?"

"I'll tell him what he needs to know," Sherlock answered quietly, flashing her a small smile, before turning to look out the window, "What I should have told him long ago." He mused quietly, watching the city pass by.

"He means the world to me."

When the cab pulled up to the park, Sherlock shakily got out, leaning on Molly for support, as his limbs still felt a bit wobbly. He spotted John in the distance on the bench, and nodded toward him, urging Molly to go forward. Molly squinted in the remaining dark, but on the horizon a bit of color was beginning to bleed through. Instructed where Sherlock was originally, she walked briskly ahead of him and then the light fell on the tree. Something escaped from her mouth, it would have been a scream only shock cut it off.

"Go back Sherlock... turn around now!" she pulled his arm around and began to push him back down the path to the cab.

"I said I would wait," John said simply and cocked his head to the side, looking once more up when he heard a thud against the tree, wind beginning to blown through. Licking his lips anxiously as he originally followed her, Sherlock fought against her when she suddenly began to fight him.

"What? Why? What are you saying?" He turned around to look in John's direction, trying to work against molly, but at this point, she was stronger than him.

"Stop it don't look!" Molly began to scream and John looked down at his empty hands.

"Molly, stop!" Sherlock tried to push her away, not able to fully turn around to find John. He caught glimpses, flashes, because the dawning sun was blinding his eyes until finally he fell forward and looked up.

"Hiya Sherlock," John smiled.

Sherlock swallowed hard, "I'm sorry, John. For...putting you through that." He said softly, trying to push himself up as his vision recovered.

"No it's ok I am better now. I am happy."

"Sherlock..." Molly staggered next to him and then sunk to the pavement, breaking down. Crying now harder than she ever had in her life, her chest hurt, only desiring to take Sherlock's hand and run forever onward. Escape.  
"Sherlock please..." sobbing into her hands.

Sherlock kept his gaze on John, cocking his head slightly, "You're fine with this?" He asked, confused, before directing his question to Molly, eyes still on John, "What is it, Molly? May we have a moment alone? I need to speak to John privately."

At that she shuddered and her crying became wailing as her arm lifted up, shaking violently as she pointed up in the tree.

Sherlock followed her hand and could not believe the sight before him. John was in front of him, yet how could he- "Someone get him down!" Sherlock cried, pushing himself up off the ground after three wobbly attempts, and stumbled toward the tree, "No, no, no." He muttered, staggering to the bark and jumping, trying to pull the branch down, "Lestrade! Damnit, get over here!" He yelled, tears in his eyes as he tried to grab for John. Molly felt so useless. Shattered as she watched the two jump and pull the branch low enough so Sherlock could unwrap his scarf from the bark. Then it further hit her, the last text that he sent her. It was only to her, not to Sherlock, not to anyone else. A mere few words. Lestrade was already on the phone with the hospital again, and quietly requested a body bag.

Sherlock tossed his scarf to the ground and knelt, pulling down John's body with him, and resting it on the grass. Sherlock could not speak. Swallowing hard, he felt for a pulse. John's skin was cold and the beating long absent. Tears spilled over Sherlock's cheeks as he began performing CPR, even though it was useless.

"Dammit John," he spat, "What the fuck were you thinking? I was better, I am here!"

"No... Sherlock... don't..." Molly scooted over and began to uselessly tug at his shoulder, "You do not have to try anymore."

Sherlock pushed her away and shook his head, "Shut up!" He yelled, and looked down at John, the tears still flowing. He sniffed loudly and leaned down to administer a breath, but instead pressed his lips against John's in fitful sobs. He doubled forward and collapsed against John's chest, clutching him tightly.

The paramedics arrived, though before approaching them, Lestrade had stopped them and everyone watched onward, waited another few minutes. It was not until Lestrade and another man pulled Sherlock off the body that it could be removed from the scene. Standing with him, Molly gripped Sherlock's hand. From the oncoming days she barely left his side. Watching over him too afraid to leave him alone and she even moved into 221B to live with him.

"I am better now. I am happy," John repeated on the bench.


End file.
